


Movement Is Language, Too

by LotusRox



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1920s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Conversations, Dancing, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Romance, gay clubs are the best places to talk about emotions (tm), these two have history together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 04:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14536914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusRox/pseuds/LotusRox
Summary: Draped on nightlife and the loud companionship of other queer men, the only thing people raise their eyebrows at is the relative rarity of Theseus’ name when they meet him. And at the easy swing of his hips when he does the blues, loose and far more at ease than his partner. Nobody bats an eye when he leaves the Brit to his own devices, settling to watch from the sidelines. There’s such life in Theseus - he wouldn’t dare to cage him.Not even by request.------Blues and tango give off such different vibes. It's 1923, and Theseus and Percival are positive they're better off as friends than as lovers.





	Movement Is Language, Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maggiedragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/gifts).



> Happy (belated) birthday to Lyss ([Maggiedragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/gifts)), who is a friend and a partner and the best sempai anyone could ask for ♥ ♥ ♥ I love you, hon! It's a joy to have you in my life, yo ;w; Sorry for taking for so long - You deserved the best I could give you~!
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It’s been about two years since they started replying to each other’s owls again , and post-war Paris is greeting them like the sinuous, cheeky woman poets compare her to. Task Force business is hardly the cheeriest reason to meet up, but there’s an entire weekend to be had between the last reunion on Friday afternoon and the need to be back at their respective jobs on 8am-Monday.

 

The Quartier Latin is quintessential bohemian, but for men like them, it’s better to cross the river. Go to the right bank, the  _ Right Bank  _ of the Seine at Le Marais, where they can shrug away their respective titles, the impositions of their mission, and even the Statute.

 

Draped on nightlife and the loud companionship of other queer men, the only thing people raise their eyebrows at is the relative  _ rarity  _ of Theseus’ name when they meet him. And at the easy swing of his hips when he does the blues, loose and far more at ease than his partner.  Nobody bats an eye when he leaves the Brit to his own devices, settling to watch from the sidelines. There’s such life in Theseus - he wouldn’t dare to cage him.

 

Not even by request.

 

But his friend is too gracious a host to leave him hanging, and after a couple of checks in his metaphorical dance card, he goes to his side. Plops on a stool next to him at the bar, fanning himself with a hand and undoing the first button of his shirt.

 

“Come back”, he grins at Percival. “Come on.”

 

“You were showing off perfectly fine by yourself”, Graves replies, rising an eyebrow. He’s teasing. There’s no jealousy to speak of - he can’t hoard what isn’t his. “I’m not sure I could keep up.”

 

“Humor me.”  And it’s a request, but Theseus makes sure it sounds like a dare.  “Have another drink, relax a bit, and humor me. Everyone was wondering,  _ who’s this dour fella at the dancefloor _ ?, you know. You’re so stiff tonight.”

 

“Glad they wonder”, replies Graves, pointedly reaching for the glass of ice water he asked for. “Wasn’t being anonymous kind of the point?”

 

“You know what I mean.” And softer now, Theseus touches his friend’s arm. Strokes at it, feeling the expensive cotton hiding the hardness of the tendons under his palm. “Do you want to leave? We can do that too.”

 

Graves shakes his head and sighs. Unwinding like this had been Theseus’ idea, but he usually enjoyed himself in these outings - he did like dancing, he did like being in a place where, surrounded by No-Maj, he was just Theseus’  _ Perce.  _ His friend from across the sea.

 

Grindelwald’s last hit weighed so heavily on him, it felt like his marrow had turned to lead. Fascist fucker had left no traces, all carnage and water between his fingers, and Graves was just so--

 

_ So powerless.  _

 

Why, Theseus wonders, does Percival still think he can hide from him? His moods, at least. He scoots as close as the bar stool allows, and murmurs, “Perce, what do you need?”

 

“I don’t want to leave”, Graves states first - because it’s the truth, and also, because  _ being just themselves  _ and leave behind all the work bullshit he usually can’t stand to part from had been sort of the point. “And you worry too much.”   
  
Theseus bites his lip and seeks his eyes. Reading people isn’t his best skill, but  _ Percival Graves,  _ this is a man he knows. “You aren’t having a good time, though. It shows.”

 

Whatever answer Graves was going to reply with, it gets drowned with the rumble of applause - the band they had been dancing to was taking their bow and leaving, instruments and all. The club, as small as it is, is the kind of place you leave at sunrise. Someone puts on a vinyl, and the scratchy sound of a No-Maj,  _ Muggle _ record lures them into a Bessie Smith song.

 

“Hey, I think you know this one”, Theseus offers again, and nobody’s dancing to this blues - it’s too slow and  _ too drunk _ , it’s early enough it just means a pause before the next band comes get comfy on the pallets that make up the stage.

 

_ ‘After you've gone, there's no denying’,  _ it went, and it wakes up memories of the mistakes Graves had never made. He hums along, trying to remember the lyrics, and then quits.

 

“No-Maj singer”, he stretches, and downs the water in a single go. The ice stings at his sinuses. “At that No-Maj speakeasy. I can still taste the bathtub gin.”

 

“Complete rotgut but it got the work done”, Theseus teases him. “Woke up a shivery mess on your living room floor, of all places.”

 

Graves smiles, and isn’t it good he has such good control on his emotions. “Don’t blame me for that choice. There were plenty of other places at the brownstone for you to pass out on.”

 

‘ _ You'll feel blue, you'll feel sad - You'll miss the dearest pal you ever had.’ _

 

Theseus sighs, claps his arm, and orders two whiskeys on the rocks. They’ll probably still be too dubious for the posh scion of one of the Thirteen, but the Old Continent does have better booze than whatever the Yanks are trying to put together under Prohibition.

 

“Currently”, he says, “I can offer you the comfort of a clean, more or less  _ nice  _ Muggle hotel room. Because the Ministry  _ is  _ sparing expenses, unlike MACUSA, and I have to stay working in Paris a week longer than you. On the plus side, nobody will know your name there either.”

 

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

 

“If you aren’t up for dancing, then let’s just drink”, and Theseus is serious now. “That meeting was horrendous. I saw the same crime scene memories the  _ Bureau d’Elite  _ pulled out of the witnesses, at the same time you did.”

 

Graves’ armor means he huffs a laugh and deflects, “and you’re going to drink whiskey? It’s not your style at all.”

 

“Both of those are for you.”

 

The answer is flippant. It’s a get-out-of-jail card of a sort, Percival can still tell him to get bent and yet... It’s enough of an excuse, if he wants to take it. And if the older man feels played, well. Then Theseus is glad their friendship had this slightly antagonist tint from the start. Isn’t this the way they like it?

 

Theseus’ armor means, he’s convinced of this.

 

And then the other man meets his eyes and downs his first drink like it’s nothing. He feels more than sees the bob of his adam’s apple as Graves swallows, almost straining the collar of his shirt, drying his own mouth in return.

 

He looks away. They stay in silence as Graves picks up his other glass to nurse slowly, a model of restraint and class again.

 

There’s this discomfort, between the both of them, whenever they’re alone--

 

A tall young man seeks to make eye contact with him, holding a cigarette between his grinning lips. He pauses just a moment before approaching them, and  _ does either of you gentlemen have a light? _

 

He has asked in English and all. And so, Theseus gestures at him for silence and secrecy,  _ don’t say a thing, come closer, lean down,  _ and snaps his fingers to spark up a small flame. The stranger’s eyes light up along with his smoke, going wide. Thoroughly charmed.

 

“How did you do that?”, and he’s straightening up - with clear intentions to  _ stay. _

 

Theseus leans back on the stool, sprawling, and his teeth draw across his lower lip before he grins back, “it’s my party trick. I can’t tell.”

 

Theseus knows, right next to him, Graves is  _ seething. _

 

“May I ask you for a dance?”, and the young man -a boy, really- has a heavy French accent, but he’s unfailingly sweet, and polite enough to turn away to blow smoke. “Once the next band comes up.”

 

He offers the cigarette to Theseus. Theseus knows what he’s doing when he accepts.

 

“Hadn’t you quit?”, Graves says, and his voice is so calm it runs a shiver down his spine.

 

“Way back at the trenches”, Theseus confirms, and inhales. Lets the nicotine soothe his nerves. Maybe another drink is in order for him. Conversationally, he tells the boy, “they cut the supply lines pretty badly once. The cravings lasts two weeks and then, you’re in the clear.”

 

“I wasn’t old enough”, and that explains the smooth sunshine of this kid trying to woo him, really. He’s a gentle one, he’s still new, he looks  _ happy. _

 

Curse his penchant, then, for damaged men who carry the world on their shoulders.

 

“Which makes me very glad for you”, and Theseus returns the cigarette, winks. “I’ll stay drinking here, I think. Sorry - best of luck tonight.”

 

The boy takes a look at the boulder that is Graves, thanks him, and leaves.

 

“The hell was that”, Graves drawls, cradling the glass like a scepter. His presence would drain the warmth off a lit hearth.  _ “Senior Auror Scamander.” _

 

The title is still new enough the reminder makes Theseus wince.

 

“It’s not a breach of the Statute”, he replies. Quiet. Tired, too. “It’s sleight of hand.”

 

He shakes his sleeve and a small book of hotel matchsticks falls straight into his palm. Turning away from Graves, he sets it on the counter and signals for the bartender’s attention.

 

Ever self-aware and sharp as a tack, Graves gets a keen feeling of having fucked up. It’s like the colorful little box is mocking him - he picks it up just so there’s something to do with his hands as silence stretches and Bessie Smith keeps crooning in the background. Scratchy vinyl mixes with the rumble of conversation, Theseus isn’t talking anymore, he has to strain his eyes to read the  _ Hôtel Les Collines  _ amidst the lines of the drawing of the building, and to make out the Montmartre address from the map on the back, and...

 

The hell is  _ he _ doing, truly.

 

The bartender comes, and Graves asks for two Gin Fizzes before Theseus can open his mouth. The man nods and leaves again, the rush of sudden stress is making the Brit’s eye twitch.

 

“That was bloody rude, Perce”, he almost, almost growls.

 

“It’s almost a Gin Rickey”, Graves tries to reason with him, and then amends. “With a cherry. I know you like them as much as I do.”

 

“Are you getting me drunk, or is the other one for you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Theseus huffs a short laugh just this side of bitter. He thinks for a moment, and then he sighs. “You have such a fucked up way to say sorry, Perce.”

 

“I was going to, later.” Percival protests, but this does deserve an explanation. “This was about getting your attention first.”

 

Silence stretches again for as long as the bartender takes to make their drinks and set them in front of them. Theseus is by then growing impatient. He doesn’t regret turning away the men who so far have tried to keep him for the night, but Graves is making hard for it to stay that way.

 

He seeks his brown eyes to clink glasses together, let the gesture and the sound be an icebreaker.

 

“There’s so much in your mind, all the time”, he comments, light and almost offhandedly - Hiding the roughness. “It gets stuck on the way out. Doesn't the clutter bother you?”

 

“Deliverance,  _ it does”,  _ murmurs Graves. Two drinks in and working his way to the third, he has a resistance good enough he’s fine to admit that much. 

 

“So are you…? You know.” Theseus grabs a toothpick from the holder and fishes out his maraschino to eat it first. “Going to deal with it. Tonight, one of these days, I don’t know.”

 

‘ _ Not sure I should care’,  _ Graves hears. 

 

“I’m not supposed to talk about working tonight”, he replies, careful, and Theseus rolls his eyes. Does a ‘go on’ gesture with the glass, so Graves shrugs and goes on as if it didn’t even matter that much. “Today’s crime scene looked like out of the War.”

 

He can see his friend’s eyes going hard, the clenching of his teeth under the skin.

 

“Bloody thing lasted for so long”, is Theseus’ muted answer. Four years of hell, crawling through mud and rot to the rhythm of artillery, Muggle and Mages alike, and for what?

 

People who hadn’t been there were so in love with talking about heroic feats for King and Country, bravery and honor. The ones who had gone through it know better. Most of the dead strewn across No Man’s Land had been men barely old enough to deserve the title.

 

Theseus is glad Pensieve memories have no scents. Grindelwald and his followers have a knack for showmanship that becomes horrifying when blended with their politics.

 

“It did”; Graves agrees, laconic. “Do you think it’ll happen again?”

 

So this was what it was about.

 

Theseus drinks, swirls the liquid inside his glass, and drinks again. “I don’t feel like giving this fucker the pleasure”, he says. And doesn’t talk about how messed up human beings could be and how, surely, people in power would find plenty of reasons for a repeat.

 

He had been to Berlin during disarmament. So had Graves.

 

“We’ll all be doing our best. I just wonder if the best we can will suffice.”

 

Now this,  _ this  _ gets Theseus to look at him. At his glass, barely touched, and at his eyes, looking for signs of intoxication. As it is, Graves just  _ wishes  _ he could blame his candor on the drink.

 

“Too maudlin?”, he tries to add, but deflecting through humor isn’t his forte as much as it’s Theseus’.

 

“Perce, it’s  _ you.  _ You’ve never taken a single thing lightly in your life.”

 

_ ‘Neither have you’,  _ Graves doesn’t say. Theseus’ nonchalant approach to life isn’t a lie, but it  _ is  _ the distance he puts so he doesn’t end up caring Too Much, burning himself to cinders. He shrugs and fishes out his maraschino, too. “Comes with the territory.”

 

“Which of them?”

 

“All of me.”

 

How lonely. Theseus spins a little on his stool, uncomfortable. Wanting Percival to keep going - it was so rare the other man opened up even a little. Even after they had gone back to being friends,  _ best friends  _ even.

 

He just wishes he didn’t have to feel like he was using pliers to drag these things out of him.

 

“Perce, you aren’t your position”, he says softly. “Or your surname. Or your duty.”

 

Graves drinks, and admits as casually as he can, “there’s precious few people who would think otherwise. Glad to know you have my back.”

 

What would he do, without Theseus Scamander?

 

Merlin, neither of them was drunk enough to not make this awkward.

 

“Don’t I always?”, replies Theseus. He’s grateful when the sound of instruments being dragged and set on the stage signals a future restart of the live music.

 

And so is Graves.

 

Graves who is married to his job the way sailors marry the sea, who will die in the line of duty, who’s leaving no heirs to keep a memory of him as a person and not a title.

 

Who knows all of this, and accepts it, because if Grindelwald is a zealot, so is he - and he’ll do whatever it takes to protect his people.

 

Just, how maudlin.  _ How lonely. _

 

He turns in his stool to look at the stage. The piano is a permanent fixture, but there’s a trio of musicians with a cello and a violin getting comfortable, and a fourth one joining them with a bandoneon under his arm gets him to raise his eyebrows.

 

_ “Good evening, gentlemen”, _ the man almost croons in a French that marks the vowels, and the tail end of words. “My name is Julio, and we’re the  _ Orquesta Retambufa.” _

 

The name drags a rumble of laughter from a single table of men by the corner, and the rest just clap, or stand up to join the dance floor.

 

Queer club at Le Marais, live music, and Theseus had done so much so he had other memories of tonight. His own ones in color, far away from the sterile white of that meeting room at the  _ Minestre des Affaires Magiques. _

 

What would Graves do, truly, without his best friend?

 

He’s on his feet as the vocalist jokes about starting with a livelier style, and extends Theseus a hand.

 

Theseus looks at him as if he had lost his mind, and fires before he can stop himself, “are you this tired of talking already?”

 

“It’s not avoidance”, Graves replies, flat. “Remember I don’t take anything lightly. But I do like tango, and we deserve a break.”

 

His hand lingers there, stubborn, and Theseus quirks his lips, curious and not entirely believing him. He reaches for Graves, gets up.  _ “I like tango” _ , he quotes slowly, as if tasting the weight of each syllable. “So, this is something I didn’t have a clue about. And you want to try dancing?”

 

“Let me lead”, is Graves’ sole request, and then the song starts with a shiver of string instruments.

 

“You’ll have to. I remember a couple of steps  but that’d be it.”

 

The good thing about the long introduction is easing themselves into it. It gives Graves a moment to set Theseus’ hands in place and to embrace him. Lean closer to whisper cues in his ear so he’d notice where the beat went.

 

Theseus does his best to concentrate, and not show what this is doing to him already.

 

_ ‘Raro, como encendido, te hallé bebiendo, guapo y fatal…’,  _ go the vocals, a sound clear and vibrant, and Graves may be teaching, but he isn’t explaining his best friend a thing about this impulse he’s dragged them into. His focus is in memory, making sure to lead correctly, his back ramrod straight, and isn’t Theseus the best possible follow? The steps come so easily to him _ ,  _ he’s sure they could try figures soon.

 

If he remembers how.

 

The intense melody has Theseus wishing he knew what was in the lyrics. The War had only given him incredibly basic French and a handful of sentences in German, and despite being sibling languages with the first, spoken Spanish resembles neither.

 

Percival’s hands, though, those he has always been able to understand. Left-right-left feet, and then sliding to the right; and the older man has him soon enough curling around his legs like ribbons of smoke in between steps, and  _ when did he learn? Was it long ago?  _ He keeps asking from time to time in between verses, Graves keeps retreating and yet not letting go.

 

Blues flows. There’s a certain inherent, physical joy to the dance completely belied by the melancholy of its lyrics. Swing is  _ happier,  _ but Theseus wouldn’t change the playful intimacy of it for anything in the world.

 

Tango is a prelude of a bedroom hymn in the same way it’s the prelude of a fight.

 

Blues flow, and simmer. This dance, it has well-aimed steps and languid drags of feet, harsh stops and quick footwork. A controlling stance, a lead that first orders and then  _ begs  _ for their follow to stay flush against them.

 

Hot and cold. Hot and cold again.

 

It’s the kind of thing that would’ve been impossible for Theseus to get on the first try with no mistakes. But Percival, he’s decided to guide him through it - and he realizes, tight in his embrace, he’s mesmerized.

 

“When I was eighteen”, Graves murmurs in Theseus’ ear at the end of a verse, so close the Brit can smell his cologne despite the heavy blanket of cigarette smoke fogging the lights of the club. “I was new to New York City.”

 

The hand splayed on his back gives him the cue, and Theseus drapes against him almost on instinct.  He’s used to listening for the guidance of a grooving bassline,  it’s not hard to find the rhythm when the cello states the beat so authoritarian - brief and pointed passes of the bow he can feel coiling under his ribs, between his legs on each crossing step.

 

“For the first time, I was alone. I was to enter the Academy come September. But that was an entire summer of getting acquainted to the city.”

 

“And what did you do?”, Theseus whispers, backing away. Graves like this is an easel for his movements, the push and pull of the dance keeps the man rigid, and yet…

 

“I wasn’t looking for answers about myself”, Graves draws him close, spins him almost harsh before another embrace. “But I found them at the Village.”

 

Theseus  _ had _ wondered how on Earth proper, respectable Percival Graves had known of the existence of Greenwich Village the last time he had visited, and they had ended up drinking there. Back then, the other man hadn’t given him a straight answer - and now, it turned out, there was  _ none. _

 

A young Perce flashes behind his eyes, seeking rebellion and identity in a darkened club. Held in place by the hands of an older man teaching him the steps.

 

More the fool was him, who had assumed Manhattan’s loosest neighborhood was a place Graves had found while in missions.

 

“Tell me how”, he asks, biting his lip. “Tell me what you found.”

 

_ ‘Hoy vas a entrar en mi pasado, y hoy nuevas sendas tomaremos…’ _

 

Graves huffs a smile - the kind that makes Theseus weak on the knees, so self-assured it makes him look a bit like a right bastard.

 

“Well”, he says. “I learnt to dance.”

 

He dips Theseus so low, the only way back up is to drag against him, his leg against Graves’, his thigh, his crotch. It steals his breath away. For a moment, he can’t hear the music over the rush of blood between his ears, surging down to flood his body with life, with the beginnings of  _ pleasure. _

 

_ ‘Que grande ha sido nuestro amor, y sin embargo…’,  _ and the instruments go quiet, letting the singer drag the last verses in a trembling voice, all tension and yearning.

 

Theseus swallows, as if that would clear away the dryness of his mouth. This man has him pinned with his gaze as strongly as with his body. This best friend he suddenly can’t read at all, who broke the heart he’s still mending.

 

_ ‘... Mira lo que quedó.’ _

 

The song ends with two chords, a violin and a piano in a spiteful goodbye.

 

Graves takes his chance to close the distance, claim Theseus’ lips with his own.

 

The world, Theseus feels,  _ Graves feels,  _ stands still for once.

 

“You fucker”, Theseus murmurs, barely summoning the willpower to lean away and speak. “And you looked so shy, when I taught you the slow drag.”

 

His quiet anger is a shield. He’s so pliant under it, he wouldn’t ever deny Graves entrance when he takes the plunge, kisses him again and does it  _ deeper _ .

 

Once, twice, it can be excused. It had happened during the war before they got together, it had happened after their tentative reunion under the mantle of alcohol without it meaning anything. And Theseus-- Graves knows his friend’s never put much stock on words over actions. Except when it comes to him.

 

“Because, you mattered to me.” And speaking plainly of his feelings had always felt too much like being a target. But that’s how Theseus knew he was sincere when he did.

 

“You flinched the first time I kissed you”, and it’s accusatory now, because Theseus’ impulses demand him to reject a truth like this, lest it opens old wounds. “You told me you’d never--”

 

This is stupid. He’s being stupid. Queer London knows Theseus Scamander and the looseness of his body in a dance floor, jealousy is literally the most hypocritical thing he could be feeling in this moment. 

 

The music changes and the next tango comes with a mournful, bitter accent in a Spanish neither of them speak. There’s no way for him to know whether the song is appropriate or not, but he likes to think it is.

 

Graves realizes, Theseus isn’t going to finish that sentence, and offers, paused so it shows it’s a confession, “I was saying the truth. Greenwich, myself, all of that - I ran away from it, too.” 

 

He’s so vulnerable, and it scares Theseus to realize, it makes him want to keep asking, and hurt this man with his doubts. He swallows and tries to keep his tone gentle.

 

“Do you regret it?”

 

Graves had feared this question. It’s a long explanation, but this is something he has to be honest about.

 

“I’m a Graves”, he says. “At the Academy, it was made plenty clear to me I had to keep a reputation, if I wanted to get far.”

 

Theseus lets go of him then. His copper heart is a fist, clenching. Gathering unused energy, too.

 

“You went to the Village to be just yourself, and then got cold feet”, he replies, flat, and isn’t it grand he’s so quick to anger? “You went to a  _ goddamn war  _ to not be a Graves, and found me… and then got cold feet again.”

 

“I’m far less brave than you”, and this puts a quick stopper to the volcano threatening to spill through Theseus’ words. He stares at his best friend, laying down his pride as if it were another dragon for him to slay.

 

Or a gift.

 

“I’ve seen you reduce grown men to tears, Perce”, and oh. What a loaded sentence is that. Theseus sighs, and tries to amend despite the hot bitterness in his stomach. “During meetings, during raids, and even when you’re addressing that mockery of a congress your lot has. Please, don’t.”

 

Graves looks away in hurt, and  _ oh.  _ Oh, if he regretted his words before… 

 

The worst part is knowing neither of them is past tipsy. But he doesn’t want to consider, either, what happens in the likely case this isn’t the alcohol talking.

 

“Work is work”, Theseus hears him say, stating it as if it were Law, to make easier the follow-up with “or more accurately, work is  _ duty.  _ And I had never considered I had one to myself as well.”

 

He grits his teeth and drags Graves away from the dancefloor. The comparison of  _ this _ to No Man’s Land is an unfair one, but he still can’t stand to be so out in the open for it.

 

What are they doing to themselves, truly. He slumps against the wall, rubs his forehead.

 

“I’m not convinced I shouldn’t just leave, you know”, he murmurs, and if one of them has to be the one to speak clearly, well. He knows Percival isn’t going to be the one to do so. “We’ve made it as if things had never happened before.”

 

“I know”, the other man admits, and then leaves it at that. As if it were  _ Theseus _ the one owing him an explanation.

 

“So what has changed?”

 

It doesn’t occur to him that for once Graves wants to  _ listen, _ instead, until he sees him flinch at his question.

 

“Theseus.” And the intonation alone would’ve rooted him right where he was, truly - Quiet, serious,  _ pleading _ clear to see for anyone who truly knows Percival Graves. “I’ve never done this. I’ve never asked someone to take me back. Just… please, tell me I’m not mistaken when I say, I see you want this too.”

 

Merlin and Morgaine and  _ Perce.  _ Theseus swallows dry, and the older man follows his every micro expression. He’s waiting for the answer, and yet he’d see the Brit shake his head and ask, “Perce, tell me what you mean when you say “this”. You’re starting from the middle, and I…  _ can’t.” _

 

“You. I want you”, Graves’ slumps his shoulders, and it takes him time and willpower to straighten them up again as if in actual dignity. “I want to  _ be with you,  _ if you’d have me - you set the rules, the names, the… Fuck, Thes.”

 

There was no way this was going to be easy. He had left Theseus Scamander alone with a ring in his pocket all those years ago, he was prepared for any outcome. Graves’ mind is overrun with scenarios as seconds stretch, dark and sticky like burnt sugar, and his friend stays silent.

 

And then, Theseus laughs, and Graves curses his timing, his foolishness, and having  _ emotions  _ at all.

 

His scowl must’ve been blinding, though, because Theseus pulls him into a fierce hug, breaking it only to see his face, all tightly-curled hands grasping at his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, just, you don’t have a clue--”

 

Babbling, Theseus decides, is the most stupid thing he could be doing with his mouth in such a crucial moment.

 

He tastes cigarettes and liquor, and the maraschino from the Gin Fizz; and the press of his lips against his uncoils Graves’s spine. Theseus kisses him like the old lover he is, his hands having found the familiar places on the small of his back and the curve of his cheek with ease, with the warmth of  _ coming home. _

 

This fulfillment, it clicks so naturally it’s hard to believe they went by without it for so long.

 

Neither of them is going to ask themselves  _ why did they. _

 

Theseus would’ve frozen time for all eternity,  _ he’s getting this memory into a bloody Pensieve,  _ just because of the way Perce is smiling at him. He draws his thumb over the beauty mark on his cheek, holds his gaze and tells the part of him that’s insisting this is too good to last to get stuffed. 

 

He’ll allow himself this. Life is fucking short. They deserve it.

 

“Perce”, he says, and fuck, Graves could get lost in the hopeful,  _ vulnerable  _ shine in those green eyes. “Look, this has to be talked about, a lot, just. Come with me to my room.”

 

“Anything you want”, he promises, and Theseus is  _ so happy;  _ he had fallen in love with that laugh almost ten years ago. He is grateful the world hasn’t dimmed its light.

 

Theseus leans up in tiptoes to kiss Graves’ forehead, taking the gamble, doubling it in an attempt that is equal parts reaching for what he wants, and self-sabotage - “Then be my lover.”

 

The show Graves makes of rolling his eyes is pure fondness.

 

“My darling”, he says, and the old, old nickname stops Theseus’ battered heart on its tracks. “Are you sure about the order?”

 

He could’ve wept in joy then and there. Graves finds himself with a similarly tight throat, and  _ oh.  _

 

Discreetly, he spins a  _ Notice Me Not  _ around them, and then Disapparates them away. The cloak of magic stays on as they coalesce back in the lobby of the hotel; the receptionist doesn’t rise his head from the pulp fiction he’s reading, and Theseus can’t help but admire Graves’ silent Apparitions, the ease of his wandless magic.

 

This newfound bravery that has him entwining his fingers with Theseus’ and grinning like a child as he leads him towards the elevators as if asking him for a dance. “Tell me where your room is”, he says, and the grate lets them in and closes silently with a gesture that makes Theseus burn with the need to tease him -  _ such a showoff. _

 

“I see the Director is in a hurry?”, but the thing is,  _ he is too,  _ and he presses the button for the 7th floor blind, too busy kissing Percival as soon as he’s done asking.

 

‘ _ Yes’,  _ Graves doesn’t tell him, getting lost in this passion he had yearned for as the elevator keeps slowly ascending. Yes, he is, because he’s sorry he didn’t this sooner, he wishes he hadn’t spun away from Theseus for so long, he outright  _ mourns  _ the way he broke his heart three years ago.

 

And now he’s getting a second chance.

 

The metal grate opens with a smooth, silent slide, and what he says is, “let’s make up for the lost time, shall we?”

 

Theseus grins, and takes the teasing, and turns it into an excellent reason to Apparate them on top of the bed. To roll Graves under him before the other man has an opportunity to do the same.

 

“And what is the first thing you’ll do?”, so casually said, as if he weren’t straddling him. His heart is hammering. So is Graves’. There’s expectation, there’s arousal and honesty intermingling as they size each other up, breathing ragged.

 

Graves breaks the standstill kissing the corner of his lips.

 

“Theseus”, he says. “I love you.”

 

He gets to see Theseus Scamander’s eyes going wide in surprise, his throat closing so tight his laughter, once the words finally click, doesn’t make a sound. He takes the chance to switch their places, press this wonderful man against the mattress with a mirroring grin.

 

“I can’t believe--!”, and now at least Theseus can speak, though barely. He laughs again, steals an almost chaste peck. “You’re a terrible man, Percival Graves.”

 

And even though he isn’t completely sure of what this answer means for their future, Graves knows he isn’t being mocked. His feelings are being welcomed. All of this matters too much, and Theseus, he hasn’t seen him this happy in so long, he couldn’t believe he had forgotten this was his true capacity for joy.

 

“Tell me something I don’t know”, he deadpans, and the embrace of Theseus’ legs around his waist is such a perfect place to be.

 

Theseus grins up at him, as if offering up his throat. Peaceful.

 

“I love you too.”

 

It’s his turn to go mute. The other man spares him with a kiss that soon grows deep with the probe of a gentle tongue, heated with a slick curl around his own - slow and exploring as if it were their first time. They breathe together, sharing air to not break apart, even as Graves starts undoing Theseus’ buttons one by one, and Theseus sneaks his hand under Graves’ shirt.

 

“Stay with me?”

 

All of this deserves to be talked about, and neither of them are particularly skilled at opening up.

 

“Yes.”

 

They would. It’s important. But there’s more than one language for it, and there is no shame in picking this one first as long as they use their words sometime later. There is, after all, an entire weekend to be had before either of them needs to be back to work on Monday.

 

Theseus pulses - drags his hips to rut against him, and a moan out of his throat.

 

(For the first time in a decade, Graves ends up late to his job.)

**Author's Note:**

> Glorious graphic and beta'ing made by Elsie ([Na_Shao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/gifts)) She has the talent of an angel and the patience of a saint ;A; I can't underscore enough how much she helped. (I'm so grateful, bby!)
> 
> \------------
> 
> I'm so obsessed with historical accuracy, research is THE way I have to get unstuck from writer's block. That tango [exists](http://www.pasiontango.net/es/letras.aspx?cancion=los-mareados) (in a sadly straight version), and so do hotel matchsticks with colorful drawings on them, Gin Fizzes, Greenwich Village and Le Marais being gay neighborhoods even back in the 20's, Argentinian music bands with names in _lunfardo_... 
> 
> Anyway /o/ Ask me stuff! Let me know what you think with a comment, I'm a sucker for those ;3 Or come yell at me [at my tumblr!](fractalspaces.tumblr.com) ♥


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